In a time when polarization and mistrust define many global conversations about religion and identity, cross-cultural religious literacy (CCRL) offers not only a framework but also a lifeline. To me, CCRL is not a theoretical model—it is a deeply personal and practical means of transformation. It brings together opposing sides in a shared space where, instead of pointing fingers, we seek shared solutions to build freer and more inclusive societies.

I write from the South Caucasus—a region marked by deep religious traditions, historical traumas, and fragile social trust. My journey has taken me from majority to minority, from defender to questioner, from suspicion to collaboration. CCRL, in this context, has not merely helped me understand others—it has redefined how I understand myself.

Why the World Needs CCRL

Much of the aggression we see in our world today stems not from inherent hatred, but from fear. We fear what we don’t understand. We fear that the “other” will expose our weaknesses, prove us wrong, or threaten the fragile structures we’ve built around our identities. And from that fear, hostility often grows.

CCRL is one of the few practical tools I’ve seen that can directly address this dynamic. It enables people to first know each other—not through stereotypes, but through real, vulnerable encounters. From there, the barrier of fear begins to fall. And when fear recedes, shared goals and collaborative action become possible.

The Legacy of Isolation and the Seeds of Change

Growing up in Georgia in the early 1990s, I belonged to the largest religious group in the country. The Soviet Union had just collapsed, and society found itself in a vacuum. The state propaganda machine had vanished overnight, but there was no vision or institution ready to take its place. In this moral and ideological freefall, fear and defensiveness took root.

As a teenager—between the ages of 16 and 18—I began forming my own worldview. At that time, I had a teacher who shaped my thinking about other Christian groups. For a while, I adopted the perspective he offered: that those who believed or worshipped differently were not just wrong, but dangerous.

Looking back, I now see how historical traumas fueled these attitudes. Georgia lost its sovereignty to the Russian Empire in 1801 and with it, 55% of its territory. The disintegration of national identity created deep-seated fears of further fragmentation. For centuries, the Byzantine Empire and the Georgian Orthodox Church had stood as twin pillars of cultural survival. With Byzantium gone, the Church remained the last guardian of our continuity—and with that responsibility came a profound fear of disappearing.

In that atmosphere, any difference—any deviation from the inherited religious norm—was seen not just as suspect, but as a threat. I, too, internalized this fear. I saw anything foreign as an enemy.

But something began to shift. As I grew deeper in my own Christian faith, I started to notice a strange contradiction: some ideologies promoted in the name of Christ didn’t align with Christ’s teachings at all. This dissonance stirred deep questions in me. I began listening to voices I had once rejected. I started engaging with perspectives I had previously feared. And I discovered something astonishing: those I had once considered enemies were, in fact, potential allies—and in some cases, the best of friends.

Seeing Through Another’s Eyes

Since that time, my life has followed an unexpected trajectory. I moved from majority to minority, from a place of power to a place of vulnerability. This experience has allowed me to see through both lenses. I understand how majority communities can feel under siege, afraid of losing their identity. I also understand how minorities struggle to be heard, to be safe, and to belong.

This dual perspective has become a bridge. Knowing how others perceive my faith community helps me translate my values in ways they can hear. It allows me to disarm fears, not with arguments but with empathy. It helps me ensure that my motives are understood—and that my actions build trust, not suspicion.

A Fragile Collaboration That Changed Everything

In 2015, our church organized a large conference that drew nearly 10,000 participants. Days before the event, it was abruptly shut down. I suspected involvement from state security services. A short while later, a state security officer visited our church. He said he wanted to know if we were experiencing any problems.

It was a moment of truth. We could have listed grievances. We could have demanded justice. But instead, we chose a different path.

We thanked him—not sarcastically, but sincerely. We thanked him for caring enough to come. We shared our story: who we were, what we valued, and how we sought the good of our country.

He looked at us in disbelief. No one had ever approached him like that. No one had ever said thank you.

That simple gesture became a turning point. Since then, I’ve been able to call him directly before any event. He personally ensures that our gatherings—though we are a religious minority—are protected and run smoothly. Despite representing the state and the dominant religious tradition, he has become a partner in peace.

Listening as a Revolutionary Act

One of the most transformative skills I’ve learned through CCRL is the art of listening—not simply hearing words, but opening myself to the pain, fear, and history of others. When I can truly hear what frightens someone who doesn’t share my faith or community, the distance between us begins to shrink.

This is not easy work. It requires humility. It demands that I set aside my need to be right long enough to understand why others feel wronged. But when I do this, I find that relationships once marked by tension become spaces for honest collaboration. Solutions emerge—not by force, but through mutual recognition.

When Empathy Becomes a Bridge

One moment stands out powerfully in my memory. A few years ago, someone vandalized a sacred icon in the cathedral of the dominant religious group. The act was widely condemned by the majority, but many in minority circles were silent—or worse, dismissive.

I chose a different response. I stood with those who were hurt. I condemned the act, not because I belonged to their tradition, but because I knew what it meant to feel violated in a place of worship.

Some of my fellow minority leaders criticized me for this. But I asked a simple question: “If a radical group sprayed graffiti on my church walls, what moral right would I have to demand solidarity from the dominant faith—if I remained silent now?”

That moment built a bridge. It created trust between communities that had once been wary of each other. It also gave me the courage to later speak publicly in defense of the Muslim community’s right to worship freely—something I might not have had the credibility to do otherwise.

The Power of Dialogue in a Wounded Landscape

In the South Caucasus, wounds run deep. History has not been kind to this region. Empires have come and gone. Borders have shifted. Identities have hardened in response to pain.

But I have found that dialogue, when practiced with honesty and humility, holds extraordinary power. It allows us to name the past without being trapped by it. It allows us to disagree without dehumanizing. And most importantly, it allows us to dream of a future that includes everyone—no matter their tradition, belief, or background.

It is precisely this kind of constructively candid dialogue that is at the very heart of CCRL. I was reminded of this fact recently in Krakow, Poland, where from June 4-6 I was privileged to participate in a CCRL Summit sponsored by Love Your Neighbor Community, the Templeton Religion Trust, and The Review of Faith & International Affairs. The CCRL Summit vividly demonstrated what’s possible when people gather not to win debates, but to build understanding. It offered a space where civil society actors, religious leaders, and state representatives could sit at the same table—not as enemies, but as fellow stewards of the common good.

In my home country, such spaces are still rare. But I believe they are growing. And I believe they are our only alternative to cynicism and conflict.

Conclusion: The Long Road to Trust

I am not naïve. I know that dialogue doesn’t always succeed. I know that trust can be fragile and easily broken. But I also know this: every time I choose to listen instead of accuse, to build instead of destroy, I become part of a larger story—one that is not about conquest, but about a principled, covenantal pluralism.

Cross-Cultural Religious Literacy is not just a method. It is a mindset. A muscle that must be exercised. A road that must be walked—often slowly, and sometimes alone.

But I have seen its fruit. In changed hearts. In unexpected friendships. In fragile collaborations that hold. And I believe that in regions like mine—and across the world—there is no better path forward.

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About the Author

Guram Imerlishvili is a Georgian leader advancing Christian unity, religious freedom, and legal-religious dialogue through faith-based events and cross-cultural literacy initiatives.